This lassie would make a wife in a million. “Bless you.”
The cool, bitter drink refreshed him and made him forget his aches. With a readiness that pleased his longing heart, Charlotte sat beside him again. Yesterday, even her friendlier moments had bristled. Well, except for when she’d kissed him.
“Tell me more about your home. I can hear in your voice how you love it.”
He smiled. “You’d love it, too, mo chridhe.”
“What do you call me?”
He wasn’t quite ready to tell her, so he pretended not to hear the question. “It’s a green jewel in an opal sea. White beaches. Heather hills. Deer and eagles and otters, and salmon for the taking, in water like crystal. There’s nowhere more beautiful.”
And Charlotte Warren would adorn his beautiful home like a jewel set within a jewel.
She watched him with an oddly intent stare, as though she listened with heart as well as ears. “So how could you bring yourself to leave it? Or do you love London just as much?”
He gave a short, derisive laugh. “Good God, no. You can’t hear yourself think there.” He paused. “But London’s interesting and full of things we don’t have on Silvaig. Sometimes a man needs to leave home to discover why he wants to go back.”
A frown drew her delicate brows together. But even now, she didn’t move away. “That’s a dig at me.”
He shrugged. “Dig is putting it too strongly.”
Her eyes sharpened. “I suppose on your island, potential wives are thin on the ground.”
His gaze was just as pointed. “I didn’t find the woman I want to marry in London. I found her in a soggy corner of Hampshire.”
He waited for Charlotte to dismiss his statement, but instead an unreadable emotion flickered across her face.
When she spoke, her voice was so small that he had to lean closer to hear. “I was engaged to be married once.”
Chapter Eight
* * *
Charlotte waited for Lyle to express surprise or sympathy, but he remained quiet. His lordship was a good listener, she’d already noted, with a talent for making the speaker feel like they received his complete attention. It was infernally appealing.
“I was very young,” she went on, before she’d even decided to share the story.
Lyle’s lips curved upward, and he settled his back against the wall as if he was in no hurry to go anywhere. “So this all happened eons ago.”
When had she started to enjoy his teasing? The affectionate humor in his deep voice warmed her better than a blazing fire. “I was eighteen. Ronald was twenty. We grew up together. His family’s estate is only a couple of miles away. Everyone always expected
that we’d make a match.”
“I assume Ronald is the fellow responsible for the nice kisses. I almost pity the poor sod.” Lyle’s hand curled around hers where it pleated her skirt. More warmth. Just as irresistible as the soft Scottish voice.
“He’s a good man. Smart. Honest. Conscientious. Sporting.” She made a halfhearted attempt to pull away, but wasn’t sorry when she didn’t succeed. “You’d like him if you met him.”
“As long as he keeps his nice wee kisses to himself, I might.”
She cast Lyle a quick glance. If she didn’t want to marry him, she had no right to bask in his jealousy. But she did. Heaven help her, she did. “I think these days he’s keeping them for his wife Frances and his five children.”
“That’s all right, then.” Lyle looked less like a grumpy bear. “I might restrain myself from punching his handsome nose.” He paused. “I assume he’s handsome.”
“Breathtaking,” Charlotte said, wondering why this confession of a wound that had always smarted became almost enjoyable. “Fair hair, an angelic face, and a graceful form. He’s a marvelous dancer, too.”
“Sounds like a complete popinjay.”
“A perfect gentleman.”